


stranger, stranger

by poisongardens



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, almost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:05:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5449388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisongardens/pseuds/poisongardens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a guy standing outside on the porch. He's gorgeous and clearly in a state of extreme irritation. “Do you fucking mind?” he asks Bard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	stranger, stranger

 

Part 1

It's perfect. All of it, it's going to be perfect. An internal monologue to remind him that this weekend, he's going to be peaceful, stress-free, relaxed, easy-going. The very image of refreshed and well rested. He's going to wake up in the morning, sing along to Otis Redding as he makes coffee, smoke a fucking cigarette and then have the patience to go back to bed and lie there for as long as he wants to. Then maybe he'll write a little. Who knows! What a time to be alive.

The dream weekend is just about to start, only twenty more minutes on the icy roads away.

It's still light outside when he begins slipping and stumbling up the path to the house, two bags full of necessities and another full of god knows what in his hands. The situation generates a slightly degrading sensation, yes, but Bard is not one to lose his temper and ruin the first sunny hours of his magical cottage vacation. Nice try, slippery snow and stress-induced mood swings, but this man will stand his ground and he will have Peace Of Mind.

It is eight minutes into the weekend. Groceries put away, heat turned on, winter jacket still on since it's still below zero degrees in here. This is nice. Bard gets a fire going, makes himself a cup of cinnamon tea.

He takes a walk as the sun begins to set and really enjoys the cold pink of the sky and the way the freezing air is so easy to breathe. When he gets back it's a more pleasant temperature inside. He lights some candles, makes more tea.

There's a knock on the door around two hours into the weekend. Four hard knocks, to be exact, what could possibly be so urgent, who even lives out here, this is so weird.

There's a guy standing outside on the porch. He's gorgeous and clearly in a state of extreme irritation.

“Do you fucking mind?” he asks Bard.

“I'm sorry?” is all he can think to answer.

The gorgeous guy with the deep English voice rolls his eyes in the most exaggerated way.

“That's your car down there, no?”

“Wha- Yeah, what's wrong?”

“Can you fucking move it?”

“Uh. Yeah. You need to get through?”

“Oh my god, yes, I fucking need to get through.”

First time for everything and all that. He doesn't really look like someone who would swear so much.

“You don't really look like someone who would swear so much.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Did he say that out loud? With words? Jesus Christ, why?

“Nothing.”

The guy glares at Bard, then looks past him into the house and frowns.

“Hurry up, I haven't got all day.”

Bard debates all the way down whether he should make small talk or not.

“No one's lived out here for years,” he says.

“That's great,” the guy says without any trace of enthusiasm and goes to sit in his car.

The rest of the night is all right.

 

Part 2

He can see the house from the front porch. He's not really moving in, is he? Must just be here on vacation. Maybe he's a single dad, too. Maybe he's a parallel version of Bard, from some other reality where he has a posh accent and shiny blond hair and a horrible personality. Maybe he smokes Lucky Strikes (on occasion) and takes his coffee black and always wakes up before seven.

Bard lights another cigarette and quickly looks away when the guy appears as a tiny figure through the door, feels ridiculous for doing so and goes back inside with the cigarette still in his hand.

He's written nine sentences when there are three quick knocks on the door – this again? Indeed, history seems to be repeating itself because standing on the other side of the door is his new unpleasant neighbour.

“Hello,” he says.

“Afternoon,” says Bard.

“Is this your house?” the guy asks pleasantly enough.

Bard is confused.

“Uh, yeah. Well, it's my ex wife's house, too.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Yeah...”

“Are you here on vacation, then?”

“Just for the weekend, yeah.”

“Hm. That's nice.”

“Yeah, it's…” What is it exactly? What is this? “What about you?”

“I'm, uh, moving in.”

“Oh.” Strike one.

“Yeah, I just bought the place. Not with my ex wife, though,” the guy points out.

“Right,” Bard laughs.

“I'm sorry about yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah. No, that's…” What? “All right.”

“Well, no, that's why I wanted to apologise, that's why I came over. That, and I wanted to see if you were free for dinner tonight.”

“What?”

The guy sort-of-shrugs. He's ridiculously pretty.

“Like a… date.”

“A date?”

“I'm asking you out.”

“You are?”

“Yes.” He smiles at Bard. Bard smiles back.

“All right, then.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, great. You'll cook and I'll come over?”

“Oh, that is a great deal. For you.”

“Well I just moved in, didn't I?”

“Yeah, I guess... Round seven, then?”

“Perfect.”

“All right. See you later.”

“Bye.”

 

Part 3

So as it turns out, what it takes for Bard to forgive someone for being an arse and then instantly agreeing to go on a date with them is a cute guy in a knitted sweater. He doesn't really mind. He does feel sort of bad for not sticking to his plan of alone time in the countryside, but there is a cute guy (with a cute smile) involved. Excellent at apologising he is, too.

And really, how fucking relaxed can you get, no, this is a huge improvement.

“Hello,” the guy says as Bard opens the door at six forty-eight.

“Hello. Come on in.”

His date looks around as he takes his coat and scarf off.

“I… I'm making lasagne. It's vegetarian, 'cause I figured, you know, just in case.”

He turns away from whatever was catching his eye, turns to Bard and smiles. “That's very sweet.”

“I didn't know if you were allergic to anything, 'cause you didn't tell me… anything.”

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“So what's your name?” Bard asks as he goes to sit at the table.

“Oh, fuck. I didn't even think of that. Is that weird, that I didn't think of that?”

Bard nods. “A little.”

“Yeah… It's Thranduil.”

“No.”

“Well, yes.”

Thranduil sits down opposite to him.

“That can't be your name.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because it's like something from a bloody fairytale! You're already… It's too perfect.”

“Oh, come on. I'm not perfect,” Thranduil says, grinning happily.

“I bet you are, though. I bet you're like, always healthy, and you listen to jazz and… things like that, and I bet you _never_ get nervous.”

“Actually, I prefer classical.”

“Fuck off,” Bard laughs.

“And really, I do get nervous.”

“Oh, really.”

“Of course. I was pretty nervous coming over before.”

“Were you, now?”

“Well, I didn't think you were going to say yes!”

“Ah… No, I can see why.”

“I'm feeling a little attacked right now. We should talk about you for a bit.”

“All right.”

“So what's you're fucking name?”

Bard laughs, again. God, this is silly, he's already got a crush on this weirdo, hasn't he?

“It's… Bard.”

“Hm. That's pretty normal. That's all right, I'll find something else to make fun of you for.”

Bard wishes him the best of luck, offers him a glass of wine. Can't stop himself from thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. It's all very silly.

 

“Best damn vegetarian lasagne I ever had,” Thranduil tells him as he moves into the living room at Bard's command.

“So kind of you to lie for my benefit.”

Thranduil looks at him as he sits down next to him on the sofa.

“I really want to kiss you,” he says. “But I won't.”

“Okay,” Bard says.

“I'm going to wait a little longer, if that's all right with you.”

“I guess, yeah.”

“I hope I'm not being presumptuous.”

“Not at all. The sooner the better.”

Thranduil smiles and looks away. Bard asks him about moving out here, if he's aware that he's now living in the middle of nowhere, then very smoothly moves closer to him on the sofa and tells him about the working two jobs and the being a single dad and how he just can't get used to this kind of thing, taking it easy, being so far away from the city. Thranduil tells him he doesn't know what that's like but that he's a single dad, too. Five points to Bard.

At some point during the evening Thranduil gets up and excuses himself as he disappears into the bathroom. Bard gets up too, to refill their glasses, and shortly after that finds himself with a counter top pressed into his tail bone and barely even remembers having the following conversation:

“Oh, more wine, yes please.”

“I'm just gonna kiss you now.”

“It's about fucking time.”

 

Part 4

“Fuck,” Bard breathes. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh my god.” The man who showed up on his doorstep around thirty hours ago to scold him looks up at him from between his thighs. “You did not just say that.”

Bard leans his head back and laughs. “Why don't you shut me up?”

 

Part 5

Bard wakes up at – wow, five to eight, that's impressive. There are strands of blond hair practically in his mouth and his arm has gone numb under the weight of another body, but still. There are worse ways to wake up.

It's almost eleven and Bard is making his second batch of coffee when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Mmm. Two sugars in mine, please.”

That voice of his sounds even better when it's been roughened by sleep and is followed by a drowsy kiss on the cheek, Bard discovers.

“Yes, my liege.”

Thranduil laughs.

“Thank you,” he says when Bard hands him his cup.

“You're welcome. I'm gonna have a cigarette now, 'cause I'm on fuckin' vacation.”

“You should.”

“Mm.”

“Mind if I bum one?”

“Not at all,” Bard tells him and grabs a blanket for them to try and share as they sit on the two uncomfortable chairs on the porch.

 

“What?” Thranduil asks him after who knows how long of Bard staring at him, he realises.

“Nothing. I don't know.”

“All right...”

“I think… I have the biggest crush on you.”

Thranduil smiles at his coffee.

“Well, lucky me. I wasn't going to say anything.”

“Why not?”

“It might get awkward. I was going to wait a day or two, then send you a cute text and hope for the best.”

“I'll still be waiting for that text.”

“Nah, you ruined it now.”

“Well, fuck you.”

They smoke another cigarette, Thranduil somehow resting his head on Bard's shoulder across the impossible distance the chairs create.

 

_i couldn't even wait two fucking hours. i want to tell you something nice but i'm worried it'll get cheesy, so i'm going to neutralise it with something mean; you're terrible at making coffee, but i like you anyway and have a crush on you, too (if that wasn't clear). i'm sorry again for yelling at you. you should go on another holiday soon and i won't do it again. //your liege_

 


End file.
